


Scattered

by snowkatze



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, the softness?? the tenderness?? the amount of angsty metaphors i can pour into this? ahhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowkatze/pseuds/snowkatze
Summary: Jaskier gets kidnapped, which is a little bit of an inconvenience. Then he realizes Geralt won't come for him this time - and well. That hurts a little more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 74
Kudos: 1867
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	Scattered

Jaskier is a little disoriented, when he wakes up. When he wants to run a hand across his face, he can't. He's a little disoriented and vastly uncomfortable. He can't place the banging in his head – hangover? Bar brawl? Did someone hit him over the head with a mallet? He tries to remember what happened... He sang in a tavern, the usual. He left when they kept asking for a song about the White Wolf, the usual. After that, things get a little fuzzy.

Jaskier cracks his eyes open, and ah. He's a little disoriented, vastly uncomfortable, and tied to a chair in a musty prison cell and possibly torture dungeon. That sums the situation up sufficiently, he surmises. So, that's... not quite the usual.

There's a gruff man standing in front of him behind the iron bars of his cell, possibly a noble. Off the top of his head, Jaskier can think of fourteen reasons this noble could have to be angry with him.  
“Ah,” Jaskier says, “kind sir, is this your living room? It's... homely. Ever think about redecorating?”  
The man grunts. Right. Jaskier can work with that. He has years of practise.  
“Now, I don't mean to sound rude, but I don't remember tying myself to this chair and frankly, I don't remember _wanting_ to ever tie myself to a chair and if I'm honest, it doesn't agree with me. But if you could just undo these binds and let me walk away, I'll be willing to accept that the ale yesterday brought out hidden depths to my personality and never speak to a soul of it.”

The stranger uncrosses his arms and fixes his gaze on Jaskier.  
“I don't think so, bard,” he says with a low voice. Jaskier struggles a bit against the ropes, but they're wound too tightly around his wrists. There's no way he'll come free.

“Not that I don't feel honoured that you've gone through all the trouble of kidnapping me,” Jaskier says and flashes a smile, “I've got to say, that's a first, even for me. I'm just a humble bard. What could you possibly want from me?”  
There is no way Jaskier will free himself of these binds, but the man hasn't put a gag on him yet. And Jaskier has talked himself out of worse before. Well. Not necessarily worse. It had never been quite as bad as this before. _I mean, kidnapping? Really?_

He feels terribly tired, suddenly. Tired at the pain. Tired at the audacity. And where the fuck is his lute?  
“There's something I want,” the man drawls, “and I've heard that you've gotten awfully chummy with it in recent years.”

“You – you're not talking about...” The name hurts to say, “Geralt. Are you?”

“The Butcher of Blaviken. The witcher. _My son_ 's killer. Ring any bells?”  
“Ah,” Jaskier says. It's not enough that Geralt is haunting him in every tavern he sings in and every night in his mind when he's trying to sleep. Bloody bastard. “And why, pray tell, do you think he cares about _me_?”

 _Boy, has he got the wrong idea_ , Jaskier thinks bitterly.  
“I've heard the songs, the ballads,” the stranger says and walks a little closer. “The bard is the witcher's trusty companion.”  
Jaskier closes his eyes. The roaring in his head, the binds, it all hurts immeasurably, but none of it hurts as bad as this. He's Geralt's curse. His nuisance at best. Companion not so much. Jaskier allows himself one quiet but deep sigh before he wrenches his eyes open again.

“Ah, I'm afraid those songs are... not an entirely accurate representation of reality,” he says.  
Should have known that would come back to bite him one day.  
“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says and he savours the name in his mouth like the bite of something he loves to eat but is horribly allergic to. “There's nothing wrong with embellishing the truth a little. I met him. Once. Years ago. That's it. He probably won't even remember me.”  
Maybe Geralt will pretend not to remember, should they ever meet again. Like they truly only met once and never saw each other again. Geralt of Rivia doesn't apologize. And he doesn't do feelings. Not where Jaskier is concerned, anyway. And Jaskier's not as young and starry-eyed and stupid as he once was. This time, he'll... take the hint. (Maybe he is still stupid, because he thinks he would take the marring to his soul if he could just see Geralt one more time, sitting there in the corner of the tavern. Just lonely in that tragic self-destructive way of his. And Jaskier would be content just to watch him, because he knows by know that nothing he does will be able to fix Geralt's loneliness.)

“I'm not stupid, bard,” the man says. “You have been seen together. He will come to your rescue. And he will get what's coming for him. Witchers bleed, and what bleeds can die.”

“Clever, clever indeed...” Jaskier answers casually, “I don't mean to be a tough critic, but I couldn't help but notice one or two holes in your plan.”  
“And what would that be?”  
“Geralt won't even know I'm gone. I haven't seen him in months. And I'm not lying this time. You might as well just let me go.”  
“No. When I saw you in the tavern, I knew it was destiny. The witcher will get what he deserves.”  
“Ah, so he's hurt you. Like you're so special. He's hurt me too. He's on his glorious path of destiny and we're the collateral. Unfortunate, truly,” Jaskier says flippantly, “but that doesn't give you any right to take your revenge.”  
Jaskier knows Geralt didn't mean to hurt him. Geralt still doesn't know what he needs, he just... figured out Jaskier isn't it. Which is fine, really. It could have been communicated in a less scathing way, but when it comes down to it, it's not something Geralt can really change. And Jaskier is sure that however this man's son died, Geralt didn't mean for it to happen.

“It gives me every right,” the stranger says forcefully. “He will come looking for you and find his demise.”

“What if we all just sat down together, had some cake and talked about our feelings?” Jaskier suggests vaguely. He can tell by now that he won't be able to sway the man.

“You're useless,” the man says and Jaskier can barely keep himself from flinching. “You can't tell me anything about the witcher, can you? You're a pointless creature. No one will miss a maggot like you.”

Jaskier attempts to protest, but the man cuts him off. “I will return only to present you the witcher's head... or to put you out of your misery.”

He stalks off. Jaskier is alone. (The usual.)

Jaskier stares after him for a moment. He pushes at the restraints again, but they won't budge. It's dark in this cell, the only light source a torch in the hall outside his prison. There's no window. No one would hear him scream. In short, he is out of options.

That's when it really settles in. He's not just bloviating – Geralt is not going to save him this time. Jaskier is going to die alone in this creepy dungeon.

“As the great witcher Geralt of Rivia would put it,” Jaskier says quietly, “ _fuck_.”

He ranks his songs from best to worst. Ponders which ones are going to outlive him. Jaskier has written a lot of songs in his life time. He puts “ _Toss a coin to your witcher_ ” all the way to the bottom of the list.

He tries to find a shape in the shadows cast on the wall, but they're just dark and resemble nothing.

Fuck. No one is going to miss him. Hey, isn't that a plus? No one has to suffer for his death. (No one is going to pause in the middle of the day to remember him.) No one has to cry for him. (No one is going to put flowers on his grave.)

Geralt is going to hear about his death from some barmaid. It'll be an “Oh haven't you heard?” story. And Geralt will order drink after drink that night and vow not to feel anything ever again in the morning.

_Is that how much you'll miss me? Will you give me that?_

And then, Jaskier closes his eyes. He embellishes the truth a little. And he imagines Geralt saving him or, in the very least, being caged in here with him.

He imagines Geralt saying, “I'm sorry.”  
Then, “I love you.”  
But there's embellishing the truth and then there's outright lying, so Jaskier makes the version of Geralt in his mind add, “but not in the way you want me to.”

He imagines Geralt sitting right next to him, and he's not saying anything, because he's Geralt. It puts Jaskier at peace a little bit.

Hours later, Jaskier's throat is dry. He doesn't know how long it is since he's last eaten. He wonders what will get him first – the thirst, the hunger, the stranger coming back to finish him off.

Jaskier thinks of calloused hands against his cheeks. Of white strands of hair under his fingers.

Jaskier wonders how many times he's knocked on Geralt's door and asked to be let in. He'd pushed so many times before Geralt pushed back – really pushed.

He thinks of every shade of yellow in Geralt's eyes.

That's the life Jaskier nearly built – the life he's about to lose, it was nearly -

Someone was nearly about to miss him, about to cry on his grave, about to tell stories about him to strangers.

_You were nearly my family._

Jaskier starts to compose a song, but stops when he realizes no one but him will ever hear it.

Later still, Jaskier thinks about twenty-two heroic deaths he could have died if he had still been with Geralt. Twenty-two heroic deaths he wouldn't have died because Geralt wouldn't have let him.

This wouldn't have happened if he'd never written a single song about Geralt, if he'd never met him. (None of the pain either.) But Jaskier has no regrets.

He's just tired. Of hurting. Of wanting. Of losing. Jaskier is about to fall asleep again when he hears the commotion. He hears a scream or two, human. Then the blood-curdling scream of a monster. Slices and crashes. It goes on for minutes. Maybe more. Jaskier's not too concerned about what's happening. It can't get much worse than this.

Then, it does.

Into the hallway steps – Geralt of Rivia. Covered in bruises and blood. Jaskier's breath catches. Jaskier watches as Geralt kicks in the door that flings open immediately.

“Right,” Jaskier says, “never had a hallucination as vivid as this before. But then, I don't know how long I've been here. Do you perhaps? You might if I've subconsciously kept track of it.”

“I'm not from your subconcious,” Geralt says, then looks down on himself and his blood-covered clothes thoughtfully. “Unless your subconscious is a truly terrifying place.”

He steps closer and Jaskier drinks in the sight, real or not.

“On the off chance you're real – you know this is a trap, right?”

“Killed the trap,” Geralt says and steps around Jaskier. Jaskier can't see what he's doing, but then there's fingers on his wrists, trying to loosen the bounds.

“Of course you did. Geez, Geralt. I thought it was just that one guy.”

When his wrists come free, Geralt walks in front of him again, and Jaskier can only stare wide-eyed, even though he has some freedom of movement now.

“He had back-up,” Geralt shrugs. Like this is nothing. Like he didn't just save Jaskier again.

“Nope, I'm still not buying it,” Jaskier says, even though he can slip free of his binds and stand up. He starts walking towards the exit and Geralt follows him. “How did you find me?”  
“I...” He can see Geralt struggle with himself next to him. They're walking, but Jaskier doesn't stop looking. “I had a tracking spell placed on you. Just in case something... happened.”  
“Wha- excuse me? I can take care of myself fine, thank you very much,” Jaskier says. “I fact, I had it all under control. You needn't have bothered.”

“I see,” Geralt says darkly, “you were planning to break free from these ropes with brute strength.”

It's strange how familiar this is. Geralt's dry sarcasm, the blood in his hair. His carefully watchful gaze. Jaskier wonders if he's been lonelier, if only just a bit.

“It was more of an elaborate escape plan,” Jaskier says quietly, even though his plan consisted of waiting and hoping for dumb luck. Maybe this is his dumb luck. They're silent on their way out – he was in the basement of a noble's castle. Jaskier wants nothing but to get away from this place. Roach is outside and Jaskier knows Geralt won't let him touch her, but he does smile at her and say, _hello_. Geralt reaches into the saddle bag and pulls out some bread, pressing it into Jaskier's hands.

And Jaskier doesn't know where to go, because so far his plan was _not dying_ and since that seems to be working out, he rearranges his priorities. Which is looking at Geralt. For as long as Geralt will let him, which won't be too long.  
Jaskier is Geralt's shadow. He will follow him anywhere. Through fire, onto a battlefield. He will walk across lava, into the heart of a tornado. He will walk all the way up a mountain into a dragon's den. He will walk into the harrowing depths of a witcher's mind and come out bruised and bleeding – but alive.

They start walking and Geralt doesn't seem to think anyone is following them, so Jaskier doesn't ask.

“You should be more careful,” Geralt says, shooting him a glance. Jaskier finds his words again.

“Oh, I'm _sorry_ if I inconvenienced you. What did I interrupt? Your designated daily hour of brooding?”  
Geralt looks away again.  
“You shouldn't get hurt,” he says after a moment. His jaw is clenched and Jaskier knows, suddenly.

“I see,” he says. “I thought witchers weren't supposed to be afraid.”

  
Geralt can't stop looking at Jaskier. To make sure he's still in one piece. Safe. Safe enough, anyway.

“And you're supposed to be a bard, not a philosopher.” _Not a mind-reader_ , Geralt thinks. Jaskier rolls his eyes. It's good to have him here. In the space next to him. Where he belongs.

“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, fed up with him. Which is fair. Unforgiving. Which is fair too. “Peace and quiet? Me off your hands?”  
And those damned feelings spill over in the worst way, again.

“I want you to stop haunting me,” Geralt spits. Because he can't get Jaskier's face off his mind. Because he's everywhere – and worse, he's nowhere. Jaskier is his shadow, following him everywhere – he is the guilt in his heart, the longing in his heart, every secret wish Geralt harboured for years, of a different life. He is with him in every tavern, on every road. After every monster he kills, Geralt turns around to see if Jaskier is safe, but Jaskier is not there -

Jaskier looks roughed-up, tired, weary – and it's all Geralt's fault.

“I didn't die!” Jaskier spits back and stops walking to turn to Geralt fully. “You have to be a ghost to haunt someone! And like it or not, I'm still kicking.”

Geralt likes it. A lot. But he can't say so – he's not sure if he'd make it worse. He left, and Jaskier still got hurt because of him. He doesn't know what to do now. Nothing seems to be right. Stay and protect him or leave to keep him out of harm's way? Nothing works. Nothing eases the pain in his chest.

“There's no one haunting you but yourself, Geralt,” Jaskier says and they're both looking at each other now.  
Is it too late? Jaskier was lucky to walk away from him with his life. But he still walked away with a bright red target on his back and scars littering his unblemished skin.

When Geralt was outside that tavern, years ago, hearing a bard's singing voice, should he have turned around and walked away then? Before Jaskier could even see him? Nothing else could have deterred him. He'd tried.

Never met him and stayed lonely the rest of his life. Never knew how it was to see him happy, how it was to have him touch him so casually. Never knew the pain of seeing him walk away.

How can Geralt still fix this? When he finds a witch powerful enough to send him back in time? Or, even more impossible, by – talking?

It's too late – Geralt is _already_ hurting.

“You want to know the truth?” Geralt says. He pulls the words out one by one. “It's my fault, all of it. The djinn, the child surprise. Yennefer. But the worst of it is – you.”  
“I'm your fault? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”  
Jaskier stares at him, oblivious to the power he holds over Geralt. How many people have it on their death certificate – death by Geralt of Rivia?  
“This. The djinn, my stupid wish. I... hurt you. No matter whether I mean to or not. It's better you stay away. Safer. Because... whether one or the other monster gets to you quicker than me, or whether you fall into an abyss, or I make a stupid wish... or whether someone who hates _me_ stabs _you_ in the chest... I'll have to bury your body.”

Jaskier has never been immune to Geralt's words, scathing or otherwise. No matter how much he pretended to be. These ones cause a different kind of pain in his chest, but pain all the same.

“None of this is your fault,” Jaskier says. “I made my choice ages ago. Years ago. I chose to follow you. I chose to sing those songs about you. I knew the risks. There's always risks. Otherwise you'll never have anything. Or anyone.”

_I am your shadow, but you can stand directly under the sun and you still won't be rid of me completely. That's my little bit of destiny, Geralt – you will never have your blessing._

“Maybe that's better,” Geralt says and works his jaw. Jaskier watches every movement in his face and waits. “I will catch an arrow mid-air. When I see a monster going for the kill, I kill it first. I... want to stop the disaster before it happens.”  
“What are you saying?” Jaskier says and tries to keep his voice from shaking. “You and me, we're a recipe for disaster and you're the toxic ingredient? Come on, Geralt. Listen to yourself.”

Jaskier wonders if they can mend this, then. If it's really just Geralt being stupid and self-sacrificing, and an absolute idiot.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Geralt amends. “I... You got hurt anyway. I... I'm sorry.”  
He says, “I'm sorry,” but he doesn't say “I love you” and Jaskier always, always asks for too much.  
Well. He doesn't ask. _Lie to me just a little_. That would be mortifying. But he yearns.

People have called him a sinner before, because he indulges, because he wants – but he does coveting like nobody else.

“That's okay,” Jaskier says, because he does understand. “It's me who should have known better.”

“Aren't you mad at me?” Geralt asks. He looks confused. Jaskier wants to cross the distance between them, but he doesn't dare to.

“Why should I be mad at you?” Jaskier says softly. “Because you broke a dozen promises you never made?”

“We both know I don't mean what I say,” Geralt says, “and mean what I don't say. Please. Forgive me.”

And Jaskier does. He has.

But he wants too much -

“It's alright,” he says. “Or it will be.”

“Please,” Geralt says again, “stay with me.”  
And Geralt has never asked him to stay before. So he nods. And he hurts a little less – but he hurts still -

He knows he's not _her_. He's powerless and useless. He's weak – and he's _weak_ for Geralt's soft smile. He is not the storm on the horizon, he is a gentle summer breeze. He is not a scream or a roar, he is a barely audible whisper. He is not a warrior – he is just a – just a poet in a world that doesn't have much love left for beauty. _I am the pause where you are the passion, Yennefer._

Geralt looks concerned and like he's trying to work something out. It makes Jaskier go a little weak in the knees. _  
My song doesn't draw you in, but you can let it wash over you when you are feeling kind-hearted. When you are willing to acknowledge that you are just a little bit soft inside._

Jaskier is less, always less – enough to appease Geralt, but not enough to sate him.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, “I'll stay.”

And Geralt tries not to feel, he does, but hearing Jaskier say that pulls something loose in his chest. Here's the risk. Here Geralt is falling again. It's what he wants, but not _all_ that he wants. And he is a little afraid to ask for more – before he loses it all – completely. But there's a risk to it, he knows that now – otherwise he'll never have anyone at all.

Jaskier smiles at him a little and with his casual affection, Jaskier is _more_ , always more. But still not enough to sate Geralt.

“I'm not going to bury you,” Geralt says.

“I mean, you _could_ burn my body and scatter the ashes -”

“ _Jaskier_.”  
“Sorry.”  
“There won't be a body,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no body. That's fine,” Jaskier lies, and Geralt loves him a little more for it. Because that's what this is, love unravelling in his chest.

And Jaskier is here and Geralt is so breakable – the way no witcher is supposed to be. Jaskier can sense it, the way he feels vulnerable. He takes a small step towards him, where they're standing in the middle of the road.

_I will shatter if you come any closer -_

Geralt has never been made of steel – life has been chipping away at him, even when he pretended it wasn't.  
Jaskier comes closer still – and it's almost too much – but it's most certainly not enough -

_Touch me, touch me until I can't remember whether I'm made from shards or ashes or dandelion seeds blown away by the wind. Scattered._

He tries to put it all in words - “I missed you,” he says. It's not everything, but it is honest. Jaskier gets what he means.

“I know you're scared,” Jaskier says, “that's okay. I'll always love you anyway. I'm stupid that way.”

And Geralt nearly breaks – but he doesn't – so he reaches out to touch Jaskier.

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly, “you...”  
“I figured out what I want,” Geralt says.

“I feel like I'm horribly misreading this,” Jaskier says, a little breathless. His gaze is fixated on Geralt's mouth.

“You're not,” Geralt says.

“I'm tired of hurting,” Jaskier says, almost weary.

“I promise – I'll try. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not even – me. Especially not me.”

“Oh. That's unfortunate. I'm dying in that dungeon right now, aren't I?”

“No,” Geralt says. He grabs Jaskier by the shoulder, a little too tightly. And Jaskier knows that he's real. “Come here,” Geralt says.

He kisses Jaskier gently – promising – _I'll stay, I'll save you, I won't let go of you again, I'll let you, I'll always let you, because it's you_ -

It's like being carried away by the wind, to a place where arrows can't reach, a place from which every monster looks small. And they know it can't last, no dream ever does – but they will stay with their heads in the clouds. Just for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Me, staying up until half past 3am to finish a fanfiction? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> I was inspired by that line in "Hallelujah" - "And all I've ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya"
> 
> And "The Archer" has also reminded me of Geralt - "I've been the archer, I've been the prey"
> 
> *sigh*
> 
> I hope you liked this!


End file.
